


our hour come round at last

by orphan_account



Series: ask and ye shall receive [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Possessive Behaviour, Protective Michael, Vessels are Angel Catnip, angel sex pollen, angels are vessel catnip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 18:41:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5344511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I want to be inside you," says Michael, low and velvet and <i>hungry</i> and that really shouldn't turn Dean on but it <i>does</i>.</p><p>All that power, that magnificence -- any normal man would run but all Dean can think is <i>God I want it to put its dick in me.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	our hour come round at last

**Author's Note:**

> set in a nebulous au where michael is the one who massacres the pagan gods in order to save sam and dean
> 
>  
> 
> i dunno what this is. angel porn. dean is a bit of a slut but im gonna take the tried and tested adrenaline plus bloodshed equals horny dean equation

"I want to be inside you," says Michael, low and velvet and hungry and that really shouldn't turn Dean on but it does.

All that power, that magnificence -- any normal man would run but all Dean can think is _God I want it to put its dick in me._

 

_\--_

 

There's blood. It's everywhere, splashed on the walls, all over the chairs and slick mahogany table and the blood of gods smells just like the blood of humans -- hot and iron -- and maybe there's some deep theological point to made on that, but Dean's not in the mood for philosophical musings. 

They're monsters. Monsters with pretensions, with delusions of grandeur, but they're still monsters: people-eating scum. And now they're dead. Dean's a soldier, and he likes to deal in absolutes and the bodies around him are the best kind of absolute: the resolved kind.

Michael's riding some poor bastard, some golden-haired man with eyes as bright as winter sky and the even gold tan of someone who works outside a lot. He's got rough hands, calluses bunching at the base of his fingers, and the sort of smile that a politician would kill for: easy, charming, warm -- nothing oily or slick about it -- the sort of smile that would inspire men to follow him into Hell. 

 

\--

 

Chuck was a Prophet of the Lord. Raphael would have torn Lilith asunder to protect him.

Dean's a vessel. The Michael Sword. 

"Never think that you are not protected," says Michael. His face is ruddy with exertion, and there is blood on his fine white shirt. "I want to be inside you," he says, again, seemingly unaware of the innuendo; his voice is flat, clean, at odds with the shine of that smile. 

He speaks like a robot -- like he has no idea how to operate his new vocal cords, like he's lining up every word and manually threading it over his tongue. 

Which is technically true. 

"You should say yes to me," says Michael, "and we will tear apart the monstrosities that would imperil your world."

"Where have you sent Sam?"

"Somewhere safe," says Michael. "You will see him shortly. I wanted to talk to you. I thought that you may have seen sense. I thought that this would have convinced you."

"Oh, it's made me see something," Dean says.

 

\--

 

He's hard.

 

\--

 

He's  _hard_.

It's absurd. 

A fever simmers under his skin, sinking red claws into his marrow, and the air sings with a strange alien charge; that's Michael. That's all Michael. 

Michael, the warrior of God. Michael, winter-eyed and furious, power crackling off him: lightning, storm, fire, everything magnificent and shining and Dean wants to sink to his knees and sing hallelujah. St Michael is the patron saint of soldiers, and Dean has always been a soldier and for the first time he is feeling frightfully devout. 

There's blood -- a heavy hot iron reek -- and there's gore, and there's an absence of Sam, but all Dean wants is to luxuriate in that power, that presence. He thinks of lions resting in the sun after a hunt; of soldiers fighting for a noble, glorious course; how he was always meant to be a crusader. 

There's something strange in the air. Has to be. He should be terrified, panicking, filled up with wrath and fear: that heady cocktail that always zings round his veins when Sammy goes. 

But he's not. 

Because, he realises with a jolt, he trusts Michael.  _  
_

"As you should," says the archangel. "I do not lie."

And then worry flitters across his lovely face: brow dipping, lips curling down; and in an eyeblink he's in front of Dean, one hand on his forehead, the other over his heart. 

"You are wounded? Ill? You are flushed; your heart beats so swiftly. Tell me, Vessel, what ails you -- tell me how I might help."

"Uh," manages the ever-eloquent Michael-sword. 

Michael's hands skitter lower, mapping the sharp cartography of Dean's body, checking for injury. 

His little finger brushes Dean's aching erection. 

 

\--

 

Michael is profoundly Not Human. Moreso that Gabriel, than Uriel -- even moreso that Cas, who could write the book on social awkward. He's like some beautiful robot, some statue come to life --

Apart from when he is fighting. 

Then he's lightning. Grace. Fire, and flight, and the surge of the tide. He's beautiful. He's terror embodied. 

Dean's a little bit in love. 

 

\--

 

"What is wrong with you?" says Michael and it strikes Dean like a thunderbolt: Michael does not know what sex is.

He's a  _virgin_.

No. Surely not. 

"It's uh. It's my cock. You know?"

"I do not know what that is. Wait. It is your genitalia? Why is it --" and here Michael does the inexcusable. 

He grasps Dean's cock through his trousers and holy fucking  _shit_ Dean's going to die, he's going to die of almost-handjob in a room full of corpses. 

 _What is his life_.

"Please don't touch it," says Dean, and Michael releases him, head quirked on one side. There's a look of utter, bland innocence on his lovely face. 

The thought of the face -- the _stolen_ face -- snaps Dean back to reality. "That guy you're wearing --"

"He is braindead. His body was held on life support by grieving relatives while his soul enjoys eternal bliss in Heaven. I know that you object to the use of still-living human vessels."

"So you're wearing a corpse?"

"His major functions are intact. Why is this relevant?"

"Because --"

"Your breath quickens; your heartbeat is racing." Michael takes a step closer, his face perilously close to Dean's. He's a little taller, so his mouth is level with Dean's forehead --

(Dean imagines Michael stamping a kiss on his brow then shoving him to his knees. Imagines getting throatfucked by an archangel. All that power yielding to him --)

"You desire me," says Michael, and to Dean's astonishment the angel  _blushes_ : red riding high on those truly marvellous cheekbones. "I -- I do not understand."

"You're gorgeous," says Dean, who is enjoying watching the pompous dick getting all hot and bothered. "You're gorgeous, and you fight like a crazy guy and apparently that's a turn on for me. I've never seen anyone kill things like you do."

"I am a soldier of God. I am merely fulfilling my purpose."

"And looking damn fine while doing it. Uh. Do you mind --"

"The dead bother you," says Michael, like the very concept is alien to him -- but he waves his hand, and all the blood vanishes and the bodies dissolve to atoms. "May we negotiate terms?"

"No," says Dean, flat and unyielding, spine straight as iron and there's iron in his soul; he's a boy of steel and scourge and strength. "No, we don't. You only get to be inside me one way."

Michael is very close. 

"What do you mean?"

 

\--

 

This is the thing. 

This is Dean's thing, at least. 

Angels are hypocrites. Monstrous hypocrites. Demons, sure, they're evil sons-of-bitches who'll skin you and rape you and eat up your bones but they never ever pretend to be anything but evil. They're honest. Open. Simple and dark as a velvet night. 

Angels though. Angels are just as willing to kill and maim and torture, but they like to dress it up in pretty words and gold light and they're slippery bastards and Dean wants, oh how he wants, to see them dragged down. Just a little. 

So that's part of it. Michael, undone and panting, gold hair tossed over one eye in a cornfield spill, mouth caught on a gasp, a high whine building in his throat -- a throat, Dean can't help but think, that has only ever been used to sing the praises of God, or to cry out His battlesong -- and now that throat's full of  _oh Dean your_   _ **mouth** _ \--

It's not the first time that Dean's had his praises sung, of course. He's no stranger to this: the heavy bulk of cock on his tongue, nudging at his gag reflex. 

But this is different; 

This is  _Michael_.

Dean is blowing an  _archangel_. 

Michael could snap him in two with a flick of a little finger. He could kill Dean with a mistimed thrust of his hips -- death by angel-cock, what a way to go! -- but he doesn't, he's so gentle, so careful. 

His hands map Dean's hair with strange, stilted movements. He's not trying to hold on, thrust deeper; he's exploring. The pads of his fingers skim over every bone and point of Dean's face and skull. In their wake is a flush of warmth that has nothing to do with arousal, and everything to do with the power simmering under Michael's skin. 

It's a bit disconcerting, to be honest. Half the point of this is to bring Michael down, remind him that he can be as high and mighty as he wants to be -- but he's still a slave to his baser instincts, more human than he wants to be. 

But he's not fucking Dean's throat. He's touching him like he's something rare and beautiful. 

Dean swallows him to the base with a shudder of vindictive skill. Michael's mouth goes slack, and his hands tighten, and he comes right down the back of Dean's throat, fast as a teenager. 

For a moment, his wings flare white-hot and huge behind him. They are bigger than the room, bigger than the world, and then they fade, and Michael is pulling Dean upright, kissing him deep and 

(loving?)

warm, hungry thrusts of his tongue, heedless of the fact that Dean's mouth is all but dripping with his come. 

"Kinky fucker," Dean says, rough affection in his voice.

(no, no not affection, not that, this isn't about anything but bringing him down, about how he looks when he kills, about --)

"I want to be inside you," Michael says, low and  _hungry_ and this time there's no mistaking it: he's not talking about Vesselhood. 

Dean's cock is a solid ache. He palms it through his jeans, and his smile slants into sly. "Bring it."

 

\--

 

Michael doesn't know what to do. 

Of course he doesn't. 

He's a  _virgin_. 

He knows enough to pull Dean close, rip his clothes away, devour him with starving feral kisses, biting his lips and neck, sucking bruises dark as thunderheads into Dean's flesh. He knows to grab Dean's cock, bring him off with a couple of inexpert jerks.

But that's it. Dean's cum is cooling on Michael's belly and Michael kisses him, breathing, "I would very much like to be inside you. May I be?"

"Uh." The grammar in that sentence is a mess and it occurs to Dean, not for the first time, that Michael does not know what he is doing.

"Let me show you," he says, and Dean -- Dean  _smiles._

 


End file.
